The Land of Hope and Dreams
by SwedenSara
Summary: In the summer of 1869, a young, Swedish farmhand named Jesper Vitlock dreams of a new life in America with the woman he thinks he loves. Will she follow him to the land of hope and dreams, or will he have to go alone? Written for the Age of Jasper contest
1. Chapter 1

_**This story started out as a one-shot written for the Age of Jasper contest, it also happened to win 1st prize Judges Vote (but there were only six stories participating, so...). But it turned out Jasper had waaaay more to tell than I first thought, and I have a few more chapters for y'all. As always, SM owns her characters. I just play around with them. Thanks Jennifer and FangMom for beta'ing!**_

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I stare at the dry, open field before me. I cannot wait to leave this place; I'm so sick of it. This year is the third in a row of failed crops, famine, and hardships, not only here in Hälsingland, but in the entire country. Two years ago, Sweden was hit with a summer that came late, was cold, and left early, not giving the crops enough time to grow. The government decided to send catastrophe aid to the north of Sweden, and local charity events were held to raise money for the poor.

My master took part and donated money, which made us laugh bitterly down in the farmhand quarters. You'd think he would have tended to his own starving employees before giving away money to others, but no. Who would have seen his gentleness and generosity if he simply gave it to us? Not the congregation, that's for sure, and it seemed like being highly regarded by the priest in the parish was more important than keeping your farmhands healthy with full stomachs.

Last year, the summer was long and dry, burning the fields, leaving a poor potato harvest and little to none of the spring seed to survive. The cattle starved and thirsted, and at the end of the summer, we had to slaughter almost half of them because we couldn't feed them all. We even had to get rid of some of the horses, much to Master Albert's dismay.

This summer, 1869, is pretty much like the last. We're already starting to gather bark and lichens to mix into the bread during the winter. Not for the gentlefolk, of course; they always eat good bread. We commoners, on the other hand, eat whatever is available. The only good bread we have nowadays are the dry leftovers. I'm somewhat glad that my mother didn't live to see these last summers. If the cholera hadn't taken her, the famine surely would have.

As the sun starts to set behind the fir trees on the hills west of the small lake, I heave the last armful of hay onto the wagon and shove the hayfork in the ground, leaving them there for tomorrow. A few drops of sweat trickle slowly down my forehead and into my eyes, the salty water making them sting slightly. My dirty hand leaves a smudgy trail as I wipe my face, and I know Mistress Maria is going to make a snotty comment about it if she sees me before I have the opportunity to clean myself up. I suspect – no, I hope – that she's going to send for me from the farmhand quarters during the night, and I don't want to risk her being put off by the mere sight of me. Master Albert has been away for a fortnight and is expected home any day, making this night one of my few last chances to be with her for a while.

_Her.  
_  
Maria Johannisdotter. Wife of Master Albert, mistress of this estate, and lover of a young, blond, and pining farmhand named Jesper Vitlock.

_Me.  
_  
I'm not sure "lover" is the correct word for what she is to me, though. I fear her and love her. She gave me work and a place to stay when my mother died, and she could easily take them away from me again. Without her, I'm back to being a homeless bastard with no family. I'm her captive, albeit a very willing one, and I can't think of a more beautiful jailer. She toys with me, teasing me by showing just a hint of her ankles as she lifts her skirt to step up into her carriage, or bending over to pick up a carefully dropped handkerchief on the courtyard, giving me a perfect view of her round behind. It's well covered, mind you, draped in layers of fancy clothes, but I know what it looks like under the skirt, under the petticoat, and under the white cotton knickers. I know how the pale skin of her buttocks looks against my rough, sun-burnt hands, and the way it reddens where my fingers dig into her soft flesh. I know what her ankles look like when they are hoisted up against my shoulders as she's lying on the floor in the barn, hay in her hair and a cry of ecstasy on her lips.

She says she loves me in those moments, and I believe her – in those moments. But then come the weeks when Master Albert is home and about, and my Maria is gone. In her place, I see someone who looks just like her but doesn't lower herself to give me even a look, other than one of utter disgust. When Master Albert is at home, she doesn't even use my name. She calls me "boy", if she should ever decide to grant me a word. I hate those weeks. They make me unsure of my place in her heart and on this farm, and sometimes I think that she could throw me out any day.

So yes, she toys with me, and there is nothing I can do about it. Actually, I'm not sure there's anything I want to do about it, and even if I did, I can't stop going to her when she demands me. If I do, I'll end up unemployed, homeless, and alone – and that's only the best possible scenario. A few years ago, a farmhand named Lars Svensson was convicted of trying to take Mistress Maria against her will and was sentenced to penal servitude. The rumor in the quarters has it that Lars had an arrangement with Maria similar to mine but told her he wanted to get out of it.

Being Maria's source of satisfaction while Master Albert is away is by far better than penal servitude. After all, I'm in love with her. Or in lust. I'm not quite sure I know the difference between them, to be honest. All I know is that it's between her thighs I long to be, and even though her thighs are the only ones I've ever seen that close, I can't imagine any place lovelier.

Maria's thighs, and the soft curls surrounding the pink flesh between them, are on my mind as I leave the hayfork in the ground next to the wagon and head across the field down to the lake. My shirt, dirty and sweaty from the hard work, is slung over my shoulder, and a gust of wind drifts over my damp, naked skin, making me shiver slightly. The small lake is as smooth as a mirror, reflecting the dark green firs and the brighter birches perfectly, making it hard to distinguish where water ends and land begins. The water breaks occasionally by ripples expanding from the water, revealing where the fish are snatching insects off the surface. Another night, I would have taken the rowboat out to catch some trout, but not tonight.

It's late August, and since the summer has been both hot and dry, the water level is lower than usual and the temperature pleasant even after the sun has set. A few nights ago, Maria took me skinny dipping and rode me furiously as I stood chest deep in the water, desperately trying to keep myself from falling over. But now, I'm alone. The houses are far away across the fields, like tiny red boxes in the distance, and the only living creatures around are the birds and the cows.

My erect cock bounces as I strip my pants off and wade into the water. It's aching – I'm aching – wanting nothing more than to plow myself deep into Maria's body. But she likes me with stamina, and if I don't release some of my pent-up desire now, I won't be able to last for long tonight. I settle down in the brink of the water and start stroking myself. The water laps against my balls and tickles the sensitive skin. My fist pumps fast, splashing into the water, and my toes curl in the sand as the semen leaves my body in quick spurts and dissolves in the water.

I stay in the shallow water for a while, using the sand and some bog moss to rub my body and rid my skin of the dirt before I wade further out and finally dive into the lake. A shoal of tiny fish runs quickly through the water, steering collectively against me but changing course once detecting me. After a few long strokes, I turn on my back and lie, floating in silence, watching the dusky sky. Midsummer was two months ago already, but still the summer nights don't get much darker than this.

The winters are different, though. The amount of daylight gracing my homeland during the cold months is sparse. But this winter will be different. This winter, I won't be here. _"Gods be willing,"_ my mother would have said. Well, _mother_, God has gotten me nowhere so far. Everything I've accomplished, I've done on my own. The money I've earned comes from hard work, sweat, and blood, not from God. I made it working extra shifts for my fellow farmhands so they could sleep in after the monthly barn dances, spending long nights angling for fish to sell and carving woodwork for the matrons at the nearby farms. When I get to America, it will all be by my own means. And if Maria loves me like she says she does, she will be there with me.

I've thought about it for a long time. The ticket to America is expensive, a year's salary, in fact. I've spent almost two years saving every _riksdaler_ I can spare in tin cans under my cot. I have enough for myself already, and soon I will be able to pay for Maria as well. I'm confident she will come with me. How can she not? We will have all the time we want, not just stolen nights when Master Albert is away. I can give her nothing here, nothing except for my body. In America, I can give her a whole new life. There is work, gold, land… They say they give away land for free. Life is good in America. Rich. That's what I want: a good life, a life where I'm more than the bastard son of a housemaid, more than a no-good farmhand, more than the secret lover of someone else's wife. In my new life, no one knows those things about me. I can make myself a new me.

A distant cuckoo brings me back from my dreams of America. It's in the west, and that makes me smile. _"Västergök är bästergök_", they say – Cuckoo in the west is the best – and I take this as a sign that tonight is the night to talk to Maria about the future.

The swim back to the shore is revitalizing, and I can't help but hum to myself as I jog back to the quarters. We are six farmhands sharing a hovel behind the stables, and working together has made us close friends. Five sets of eyes lift from a game of Kille as I enter the quarters. Usually I would join in on their game, but not tonight. They tease me for my clean appearance, and I make a rude gesture before throwing myself on my cot. Reaching down, I pull out the tin cans from underneath and pour the coins out to count them one more time.

I keep close track of how much I have, not because I think my roommates will steal any of it, but because it's my way of counting down the time until I can finally leave. I only have about a month left, by my estimations. I pick up my knife and a new piece of wood and continue carving out Kille pieces. Maria and I are going to need something to occupy our time on the boat, and Kille wood pieces are more likely to survive the wet journey over the Atlantic than their card equivalents.

My mind drifts as I work on the wood, and I lose track of time. The sound of the kitchen bell brings me back to the present. We rise in unison and hurry to the kitchen back door, our evening porridge waiting for us. There's a warm and hearty atmosphere in the kitchen, as farmhands, maids, and cooks crowd around the huge wooden table. Maria's lady's maid scurries by, carrying a tray of biscuits, honey, and warm milk for her mistress. She glances at me as she turns around, backing out of the kitchen door, and her simple nod tells me everything I need to know. Maria is expecting me.

I wait the customary hour before sneaking out of the kitchen and around the back of the main building. The laughter from the kitchen still reaches me as I stand quietly, hidden behind the large dog rose underneath Maria's bed chamber. Master Albert, who claims to be a God-fearing and chaste man, insists on them having their separate bedrooms. According to him, he wants to eliminate the risk of unnecessary temptation. I suspect the main reason is that he has his own little arrangement with Maria's lady's maid. Either way, I'm eternally grateful. I could not bear to be with Maria in a bed that was otherwise shared by her husband. At least this way, it's easier to believe Maria when she says their conjugal visits take place elsewhere.

A warm, flickering light moves around in her room, and soon an oil lamp appears in her window. That's my cue, and I steal a quick glance around before climbing up the small ladder on the wall. It's been installed as a fire escape route, but it's proven very useful for my sneaky nightly visits. As far as I know, the only one aware of the relationship Maria and I have is the lady's maid, and since I believe she has her own reasons to keep quiet, I'm fairly convinced she won't tell anyone.

A quick tap on the window is all that is needed, and soon I'm on the inside, being dragged towards Maria's bed. My legs get entangled in her long, white nightgown, and we fall down, giggling hysterically. I reach behind to unbutton it, but she's in a hurry and just hoists it up, all the way to her chin, revealing her dark triangle of hair and her soft, full breasts.

Her legs are spread wide in front of me, and I sink down, covering her sex with my mouth. She makes the most perfect little moans as I work her with my tongue the way she taught me, and she lifts her hips towards me to give me better access. Two of my fingers slide easily into her, and I push them hard and rhythmically against that ridged spot on the inside. I feel it swell and press harder, faster, as I lick and suck on that small button that's buried in her folds. It doesn't take long for her to come hard on my fingers, crying out in pleasure, and she's still panting as I throw her around, pulling her buttocks up high and pushing myself deep into her.

I want nothing more than to fuck her quick and hard, but I know she expects me to make her come at least once more. I take a few deep breaths and pause, trying to keep myself in check. She's coming down from her high already and, impatient with me, starts moving on her own, pushing herself back and forth, fucking herself on my cock. I keep still, knowing that the moment I give in and start meeting her motions I won't be able to hold it in anymore. Maria throws her head around, glaring at me over her shoulder, hissing at me to "_start moving, for God's sake, I'm not inviting you just to have to do all the work by myself_."

She's magnificent in her anger and lust, and I don't dare to do anything else but give her what she wants. It's my luck that I've already gotten off once today because I manage to fight off my release until the moment I see her body shake in orgasmic spasms and feel her clench around me. My legs are quivering, and after I've pulled myself out, I fall down on the bed beside her. Strands of her dark hair are plastered against her forehead, and I gently push them to the side, revealing her beautiful face. A satisfied smile is playing on her lips, and I lean down to kiss her.

This is the moment I've been waiting for.

This is it.

I whisper the words in her ear. I tell her about my plan. I tell her about the money I've saved and how it's almost enough for us both now. I tell her about the life I can give her over there, in America.

And then I wait.

I wait for her to say something – anything. I look at her expectantly as she stares at me, surely overwhelmed by my offer. She sits up slowly, turns around, and gets off the bed. She walks up to the window and stares out, her back turned against me, and I see her shoulders start to shake. She puts her hands over her face, and I realize that she's crying. Jumping out of bed, I hurry to comfort her, and it is then that I see that she's not in need of my comfort. Tears are streaming down her face, but it's clearly not tears of sadness. She's laughing, silently. The moment she lays her eyes on me, she bursts out in high-pitched guffaws. It confuses me, and I take a step back. Why is she laughing like this?

She shakes her head at me. I stand dumbstruck before her as she explains, through fits of hysterical laughter, that there is no way on earth she is going to give up this life, where she has everything she's ever wanted, for a simple farmhand like me.

_A simple farmhand like me.  
_  
I fall to my knees ready to beg, but all I hear is her assuring me that the only thing she's ever wanted from me is my cock, and to be honest, that can easily be replaced. My mind is reeling from the things she's saying, and there's a buzzing sound growing louder and louder in my head until something snaps inside of me and everything turns quiet. I see her mouth move but I hear nothing.

Then, through the silence, her voice rings clear as she calls me silly, opens the window, and motions for me to get out. I rise on unsteady legs and reach for her face, my hand stopping mid-air, trembling. She smiles sweetly, but slightly contemptuously, and says something about my needing to get some sleep and regain my wits. She says that Master Albert is expected back by noon tomorrow and the courtyard needs to be tended to before that.

_The courtyard needs to be tended to before that.  
_  
Her laughter is still ringing in my ears as I climb down the ladder and sneak back to the quarters. My cheeks are burning with shame, and I try furiously to blink away the tears of anger and embarrassment that are threatening to escape. The humiliation is worse than anything I've ever felt before. If only she'd just said no, but she had to go and laugh at me, to stomp on my plans and dreams and throw them in my face. She said I'm just a cock, and a replaceable one, at that.

_Easily replaced.  
_  
I can still hear sounds from the kitchen, loud men singing and maids laughing, and I'm relieved to find the quarters empty. My body is numb; I can see my legs walk but don't really feel the motion. It makes me wonder how it's possible to move around like this, effortlessly, without sensing the weight on my feet, the movement of my arms, and the tension in my muscles.

The cot creaks as I sit down heavily, staring blindly ahead of me. Slowly it sinks in, what just happened. Everything I thought Maria and I had is a lie. She feels nothing for me. I'm nobody to her. And then I see it, clear as day. Why would a woman like her ever want a life with a man like me? That's right, she wouldn't. Of course she wouldn't. We are from different worlds, and the only time our worlds do blend into each other are in the bed. Or the barn. Or the lake.

_How could I have been so stupid?  
_  
The sadness I feel over her rejection is transforming into anger. Anger at her, yes, for being so cold-hearted and condescending. But most of all, I'm angry with myself for not seeing things clearly, for letting my vision blur because of a pair of soft thighs, full breasts, and a wet pussy. I swear I will never make that mistake again.

It feels like I'm trapped in a dream; the world around me seems out of proportion. The floor is swinging and the walls look bent, and my hands seem to be too far from my body as they start gathering my belongings. I don't own much: an extra pair of rough, homespun flax trousers, a flax shirt and a nicer cotton one, and the provincial costume with its knee-length, yellow, woolen breeches, bright red embroidered vest, and little woolen hat. That costume is the only thing I have left of my family. It was Uncle Peter's once, and he left it for me before he emigrated to America with Charlotte and their children.

I fold my clothes and put them on my blanket before carefully pouring all my saved coins into the four leather pouches I've made for this purpose. I hang two of them around my neck and hide the other two among my clothes. The Kille pieces I've carved for the trip are neatly collected in a handkerchief with a leather strap tied around it, and I place it on top of my clothes. I bring the corners of the blanket together, tie them up in a bindle, and then fasten it to a stick. I look at the tattered mattress on my cot, decide to bring that as well, and roll it together tightly. I fasten it to my back with a leather belt, put the bindle stick on my shoulder, and leave the quarters without looking back.

I walk the entire night, thanking my lucky star for the light northern summer nights. The gravel crunches under my shoes as I follow the road south, each step taking me further away from my native district. I've read the letter from Uncle Peter a hundred times, slowly spelling out word after word, and I know his description of the journey by heart. I probably need an entire week to get to Uppsala walking by foot or catching rides with hay-carts. Once there, I can take a train to Stockholm. In Stockholm, there are daily trains all the way to Göteborg, and from Göteborg, I'll take a Wilson Line boat to Hull in England. Then it's the train again, but this time to Liverpool. From the Waterloo docks in Liverpool, I will take the transatlantic liner to New York.

_Four to five weeks, all in all.  
_  
Four to five weeks to decide what kind of person I want to be when I set my feet on the ground in America.

_America, my new homeland._

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**_To be continued... _****_If you enjoyed this story, please take the time to review. _**

**_If you want other things to read while you wait for the next chapter, please feel free to read my other stories. _****_If you're a Jasper lover, check out "Free the Beast" (Darksper comes out to play...), and stay tuned for more chapters of "On her skin, in her heart", where Jasper will make a few appearances. *ahem* _**

**_For the femmeslash lovers I have "On her skin, in her heart" (an Alice/Bella story in the making) "... and a silver sixpence in her shoe" (a Claire/Nessie love story) and "Locker Room Girl" (pure Bella/Leah gym smut). _**

**_If you are into Edward/Bella, I have a multichapter called "The Secret Changes within Bella Swan", a story about how being married isn't always as easy as people pretend it is. There is also a one-shot called "Bella Swan, stalker", which is basically just about sex._**

**_If you like Alice and angst I have "Vanishing". It's a dark story and deals with eating disorders and death, so don't read if those things trigger bad feelings for you._**

**_I also write some original fiction. Those short stories are posted as stand-alone chapters in "A bright, starry night"._**


	2. Chapter 2

_**SM owns Twilight, of course. Thank you Jennifer for all your help, and ElleCC and Twimarti from PTB for straightening out my comma issues. For explanations concerning some specific Swedish things, see A/N below for links!**_

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As the sun rises, the birds start to sing again, waking me from the meditative state I've been in for the last couple of hours. My stomach growls, and I decide to walk until the sun is warming the air before pausing for breakfast. I didn't pack any food and begin to collect whatever edibles I come across on my way. I end up with wall fern roots, raspberries, some late wood strawberries, and a handful of blackberries that ripened earlier than usual thanks to the warm summer. The sun has risen above the tree tops, and I sit down on a warm stone on the side of the road. The berries aren't much of a breakfast, but they are sweet and give me enough energy to keep going. I take a short detour to a small creek I've heard purling close to the road for the last few miles, drink the fresh water, and clean myself. I remain sitting with my feet in the cold water for a while, watching it swirl around them, trying to empty my mind of thoughts of Maria. My stomach churns at the memories of her, and I imagine throwing them in the water and watching them disappear, hoping they won't ever return. I take my feet out of the cold water and lie down on the moss to rest while I wait for the sun to dry my feet.

The creaking sound from a cart and the snorting sounds of a horse wake me up from my slumber, and I gather my belongings and hurry out on the road. It's a farm-boy with a small cart full of potatoes, beets, and carrots on his way to Järvsö, and he lets me ride on top of them. It's a lumpy and bumpy ride, but it's better than walking. The farm-boy isn't very talkative, and I am grateful for the hours of silence. I don't feel much like chatting and spend the day staring straight ahead at the winding gravel road. Once we get close to Järvsö, he lets me off by the first crossroad. He offers me a couple of bunches of carrots, but when I try to pay for them, he just shakes his head and waves me off, telling me to save my coins for later.

As he steers his cart away, I scan my surroundings. I'm in the outskirts of the small village. The gravelly road diverges into two smaller ones that probably lead to a few farms or old soldier crofts, and a large road leading to the center of Järvsö. The fields that surround the roads are lined with common wooden fences: poles of young firs leaning with the thicker ends against the ground and the thin ends tied to vertical poles with withes. I examine the corner poles searching for carved hobo signs to tell me about the nearby farms. On my left side, a circle with two arrows across points to the left, which means there is nothing but hostility to be found down that road. To the right, an encircled cross tells me that people may give you food but not money. Money I have, but I need some food. I start walking down the right road, hoping it won't be long until I reach a friendly household.

I wash my hands and face in the first stream I come across and comb my hair with my fingers so I won't make an unnecessarily unpleasant impression. Another crossroad comes up, and I search for signs carved into the trees by the road. The moment I find it, I know where to go: the circle has a line that runs straight across from bottom to top, then makes an angle above it that points to the left. A small croft is partially visible down that road, hidden behind some birch trees. A couple of goats are tied to one of them and are nibbling on the grass between. As I get closer, I see some hens strutting around in a small front yard where the grass has been cut down. A shovel and a hay-fork are propped against the wall next to a scythe. The little house is surrounded by a fence, and I pause at the entryway. The sign for "food but not money" is carved in the gatepost, so I know I've come to the right place, but I still hesitate. This doesn't look like a wealthy household, and it feels wrong to ask for food here. They probably need it as much as I do.

Before I've had the time to turn around and leave, the door opens and a middle-aged woman peeks out. When she sees me, she opens the door and calls to me, asking about my name and intentions. I feel my ears redden as I ask if she has some food to spare. I realize it sounds like I'm begging for food, and I don't like how inferior it makes me feel. I quickly add that I'll pay for it. I even take one of my money pouches out and hold it up for her to see. She laughs and invites me to the porch, then disappears inside. The goats eye me warily and bleat when I get closer, but quiet and return to their grazing once I've passed. Moments later, the woman returns with a piece of bread and some dried meat. She accepts the coin I offer her, then waves me off. The homey sounds of cackling hens and bleating goats follow me as I walk away, and I decide that when I get to America and build a house of my own, I'll have both hens and goats, and maybe even a sheep or two, for the wool.

Once I'm back at the main road, I sit down to eat. The food I received is just enough to fill my stomach for the evening, and I finish with one of the carrots. I realize I'll have to buy more food before I continue my way south. I didn't think to bring one of the birch bark knapsacks we use to pack our food in when we have long days at the fields, and I decide to ask around once I get to Järvsö to see if someone knows where to get one.

Järvsö turns out to be livelier than I thought it would be. I had expected people to be at home preparing their evening meals, but the marketplace is still full of people. I end up with a birch bark basket instead of a knapsack, which is more difficult to carry but comes with a wooden lid to use as a table. This limits my way of travelling to riding in carts and carriages, instead of simply walking, but it's probably for the best, as I don't have an extra pair of shoes if I wear out the ones I have on.

I set to fill my new purchase with supplies. I try to find dry food as much as possible, since it's easier to carry, but can't resist a dozen sweet apples offered to me by a pretty fair-haired girl. Her eyes widen as I take out one of my leather pouches and search for the correct amount of coins to pay her. Her smile tells me she's impressed by my so-called wealth, but I'm almost offended by her interest. I know she wouldn't have glanced twice at me if she hadn't seen my money, because my appearance far from matches the money in my pouch.

I still have several days to travel until I reach Uppsala, and I can't count on being lucky enough to find people to ride with right away. I suspect quite some time will be spent waiting by the road. I briefly consider staying at the inn during the night but decide against it. After all, the weather is nice enough for sleeping outside, and I could spare the money for less fortunate nights. A spot under a fir tree close to the road will give enough shelter from the morning dew, and after rolling out my tattered old mattress, I fall asleep.

Dreams of Maria, her face distorted and shrewd, haunt me in my sleep, and I wake up still tired. After putting the mattress and my bindle into the basket, I carry it to the road and sit down to wait. A hay-cart shows up after a while and pauses just long enough for me to haul myself and the basket up in the back and sink down in the pile of hay. The smell reminds me of nights with Maria in the barn, but I force the memories away and keep my eyes on the sky. The day passes. One hay-cart is exchanged for another, and then a potato-cart follows. I barely notice the villages I pass. Some names I recognize, some I don't.

Vallsta. Arbrå. Bollnäs.

Sometimes we stop to drink and feed the horses, and I mechanically put food in my own mouth, chew it, and swallow, not really bothering to care what it is and how it tastes. A night is spent half asleep in the back of a postal carriage, and the next day passes much like the last.

Kilafors. Tönnebro. Ockelbo.

Hay-carts, potato-carts, postal carriages. Waiting by the road in between. Eating and drinking, but not really tasting the food. Replenishing my supplies with whatever is available. Gathering berries when I come across them. Sleeping, but not really getting a reprieve from the scornful and mean Maria who is inhabiting my dreams. Another day, another set of villages to barely notice as they pass by.

Gävle. Sandviken. Årsunda.

The billowing hills that still resemble my home district are being replaced by a flatter landscape, with yellow fields stretching far on both sides of the road, sometimes interrupted by dark and thick woods that appear to be closing in on me, threatening to swallow me and never let me out again. That night I dream of Skogsrået, the siren of the woods. Her long, red hair is falling down over her full breasts, and the triangle of hair between her legs looks smooth like fox fur. She whispers to me, and I follow her as she slowly backs into the deep forest. She stops, and I close in on her, suddenly naked with my erection pointing at her, bigger than ever. I know I shouldn't—she traps the souls of men by sleeping with them—but I can't help myself. Just when I reach out to touch her, she giggles and turns around. All I see before she disappears is her fox tail and her back, hollow, like a log that's been carved into a tray. When I turn around to find my way back, every tree looks the same. No matter where I go, I end up at the spot where she left me, and I realize I'll never get out again.

I wake up at dawn, panting with fear, and all I want is to get out of that forest. I quickly assemble my things and keep a steady pace until I hear the sounds of horses and an early postal carriage. The coachman tells me we're not far from my destination and that we'll get there well before lunch.

Österfärnebo. Östervåla.

The trees thin out, and then, once again, I see the fields, only this time they are interrupted by strange gatherings of mounds scattered across the landscape, and I wonder if those are the Viking graves that I've heard Master Albert talk about. Then I finally see it: Uppsala.

_Uppsala._

I have trouble believing I'm actually here. The cathedral is huge, larger than anything I've ever seen, with two bulky towers in one end. A river is cutting through the village, and we steer towards the bridge. Uppsala is getting closer by the minute, and I notice the difference between myself and the people we pass by. They look less like country folks and more like patrons, only with a slightly different style compared to Maria and Master Albert. The men's suits are a little different, the hats are a bit higher, and the shoes are definitely shinier. The ladies' dresses are a little bigger and more brightly colored, their hairdos more complicated and their bonnets have more frill on them than I'm used to. Looking down at my own tattered clothes, I realize that the first thing to do in Uppsala is to find somewhere to wash up and then get a new set of clothes.

The town has a mixture of houses: wood houses that are one to two stories high, and higher houses made of bricks and stones that reach up to four stories. I've never seen brick houses that large, and I wonder how far you can see from the top floor.

When a family comes out of the doors of one of the houses, I realize that people are actually living there. I can't imagine the amount of money needed to be able to live like that. I bet they have more servants than Master Albert. Maybe one day I'll be that rich and have my own servants. One thing is certain, though; if I ever get any servants, I'll treat them right.

I wander through the cobbled streets, my now-empty birch basket under my left arm and the bindle stick over my right shoulder. Fashion hasn't been important to me, seeing as working as a farmhand requires durable clothes, not fancy. As I study what people wear here, I'm relieved to find that the options for men are quite limited. I enter the first clothing shop I see and opt for two pairs of high-waisted trousers, three white shirts, a vest, a cravat, a long coat, and a top hat. The salesman tries to sell me a cane as well, but to be honest, I don't see the point of that. It's not like I'm an old man, and I'm certainly not disabled.

As I look at my newly acquired clothes, I realize I've got a problem. There's no way I can carry all of this with my bindle stick, and I'll need to replenish my food supply as well. The birch basket has been a big enough problem on its own, and if I'm to add a trunk of clothes to that, I'll need some kind of cart to pull them on. The salesman offers to put aside the clothes for me while I go search for a cart, and he recommends a shop around the corner that sells trunks and travel caskets.

Finding a cart turns out to be a bit of a problem. I have to walk all the way back over the bridge to the farmer's market and finally convince a boy selling turnips to let me buy his once he's done for the day. To speed up the process, I volunteer to help him, and we manage to get rid of all his turnips both quickly and at a good price. The charm of the two of us combined sends off at least a dozen maids and housekeepers of all ages with a giggle and a blush on their cheeks.

After paying my debt for the cart, I begin to fill my birch basket with more food. The farmer's market is a lot bigger than the ones I've seen back home. There is fruit, both dried and fresh, and lots of vegetables. I find different kinds of meat and fish: fresh, salted, or dried. Some of the stalls sell pickled vegetables, jam, and fruit syrup, some sell bread, and some sell grains and flour. I settle for mostly dried and salted food, since it weighs less and keeps better, and once again I fail to resist the fresh apples.

The turnip boy shows me a place to bathe that is upstream of the river floating through Uppsala. I park the cart by the shore before I take my shoes off and jump into the water, still fully clothed. The water rinses the dirt off my body, and my hair goes from dirty hay-colored to shiny blond again. With water up to my neck, I remove one piece of clothing at the time, rubbing them carefully and getting rid of the stains. For the first time since the night I left, I take my cock in my hands. I think of the farm-girls and maids we've been flirting with this afternoon, and after a quick glance around, I start stroking myself. Smiling faces and ample bosoms pass through my mind, but it doesn't take long before they change and turn into someone with Maria's face and the fox tail and hollow back of Skogsrået. The image makes my erection wilt instantly.

Once I consider myself clean enough, I spread my wet clothes over the cart. The sun dries my body, and it's not long before I can dress myself in my second set of clothes. The clean flax clothes feel raw against my skin, but I know they will soften once I've worn then for a few hours. I make sure to dry my feet thoroughly before putting my shoes back on—having damp feet is asking for blisters. I don't want to risk getting infections of any kind before I get to America, because I've heard they don't let people into America if they are sick.

The walk back to town is refreshing, and even though the cart is a bit unwieldy, it still helps a lot. My grumbling stomach reminds me that I haven't eaten much, and as I stop by the store to buy the trunk for my new clothes, the salesman points out an inn down the road with hearty food for a fairly good prize. Once I've got all my new clothes neatly folded in the trunk on my cart, I take the chance to fill my stomach with warm rabbit stew, my first warm meal in several days. The fact that I've arrived at the first milestone on this journey makes me feel like celebrating, and I order a bottle of mead.

As I sit there, basking in the afternoon sun, I listen to the people around me. Their dialect is different from mine, and some words and expressions are new to me. My eavesdropping tells me that the train station isn't on this side of the river; I'll have to go back over the bridge once again. It seems like the ticket office closes when the bells on the cathedral strike eight, and I remember hearing six of them not long ago. I pay for my food, gather my things, and head for the train station.

I'm lucky—the next train to Stockholm leaves early the next day. It feels unsafe to leave my cart unattended in the luggage room at a hotel, and sleeping somewhere in an alley in town seems even more stupid. I sneak down to the railway yard and find a spot between two empty cattle cars that seems safe enough. I spend the rest of the evening on the cart, leaned against the trunk with the bindle under my head as a pillow. My knife and a piece of wood serves as a time-killer, and the knowledge that I've gotten this far makes me feel almost hopeful.

Once the morning comes, I stretch and limber up my stiff body before pulling the cart to the platform. A few apples, a piece of bread, and water from a drinking fountain are enough for breakfast, and while I wait to board, I watch the people filling up the platform. Most of them have one or two trunks like I do, some have a large load and servants managing them, and some have nothing but the clothes they wear.

I'm excited for the train ride. It's the first time I've been on anything that moves faster than a horse and isn't powered by living creatures. I notice that the wealthier passengers travel in a different car than the rest of us, and they don't look as suspicious of the train as some of the poorer people. I figure if the rich aren't afraid, then why should I be? I'm made of tougher material than them, anyway.

After loading my stuff onto the train, I pick a seat close to the luggage storage. I keep the pouches of money on me, afraid someone will see them and steal them from me. As the train shakes into motion, I sink down on the seat and watch the landscape fly by. It's going a lot faster than I thought it would, and I quickly learn that keeping my eyes in the distance helps against the nausea.

After a while I fall asleep, and the two-and-a-half hour ride is over before I know it. It's still well before lunch when I arrive in Stockholm. Back on the farm, we would be sitting down for morning coffee right about now, with several hours of work already behind us, while the gentlefolk would be having a late breakfast, still yawning.

It takes a while for me to find my way at the station. It's so much larger than the one in Uppsala, and there are so many people scurrying around that it's hard to see where I'm supposed to go. The timetable for the Stockholm-Göteborg train is fairly well adjusted to the Uppsala-Stockholm arrivals, which means that once I've found my way to the ticket office, I don't have to wait for long until I'm back on a train again. I manage to get a spot next to a window again and lean my head toward the cool glass as we start to move.

The landscape I see is different than the one I've passed through on my way down here. It's not as billowy as I'm used to, the forests are brighter and not as dense, and there are more leafy trees than firs and pines. This time, the train ride lasts for several hours, and there is not much to do other than to eat some and then try to sleep. The people I share a compartment with are solemn and quiet, and I can tell that a lot of them have left friends, family, and loved ones behind. The lack of close relationships in my life seems pretty convenient to me now. There isn't much for me to mourn.

As we wheel in at the station in Göteborg, I see the ocean for the first time in my life. It's bigger than anything I've ever seen. Small islands are scattered across it, but farther out there is nothing. Nothing but ocean and the horizon. I shudder involuntarily, uncomfortable by the sight. I'm a good swimmer, but if the ship sinks, there will be nothing for me to swim to. Of all the deaths I've imagined for myself, drowning wasn't one. I realize there is a very real possibility I won't get across that ocean alive.

I shake off the thoughts of death, take my cart, and follow the line of people moving away from the train station. Most of them seem to be headed the same way, and I soon realize why. The queue is winding halfway around the block from the Wilson Line ticket office, moving forward at an incredibly slow pace. I sit down on the cart next to my trunk and my birch basket, resting my legs for a while. Most of the people queueing with me are families or married couples, a few single men like me, and even fewer single women. The married men are glaring at everyone laying their eyes on their wives and daughters, sending out clear messages that they are off limits and closely monitored. The single men are acting cocky, trying to establish some sort of hierarchy before they're even on the boat. The single women try to make themselves invisible, plain, and uninteresting. I take part in nothing. I just sit there, waiting.

It's well after dinner time when I'm finally at the ticket window.

"En enkel biljett till Hull," I say to the sullen salesman, put the money on the counter, and get a piece of paper in return. One single ticket to Hull. I thank him, put the ticket in the breast-pocket of my vest, take the cart, and leave. I pull my cart back to the train station and into one of the waiting rooms. The boat doesn't leave until tomorrow, and I don't feel like sleeping outside one more night. I have no idea if I'm allowed to sleep in here, but I figure since it's a waiting room, and I'm most certainly waiting, no one can possibly argue with that. Besides, who's to know I'm waiting for a boat, not a train? I find a water fountain and fill a bottle of water, eat some dried meat and an apple, and fall asleep on a bench with my luggage secured to my arm with a rope. That way, I'll feel if anyone tries to run away with it.

Nothing disturbs my sleep, and when the morning comes, I feel more rested than I have in a long time. The noises from the docks tell me that it's time to leave. I force my way through the crowd of people waiting for the boat to call at the wharf. Some are crying, hugging their families goodbye, and some are elated and expectant, looking forward to their new lives. I'm neither. I have no one to say goodbye to and nothing waiting for me when I arrive.

I'm alone, and I feel empty.

* * *

**_A/N I know some people will wonder about Skogsrået, our siren of the woods. Here you find information about her (remove the blanks): en . wikipedia wiki / Huldra_**

**_Pictures that show her hollow back: maskdarlequin . deviantart art / Huldra-s-Allure-304826173_**

**_and: www . theroundtableonline wp-content / uploads / 2010 / 02 / huldra700 . jpg_**

**_For those of you who were wondering about the Kille-game, info is found here: en . wikipedia wiki / Gnav _**


	3. Chapter 3

**_SM owns it, I just play with it. Thanks to PTB for their help, and to Jennifer for being such an awesome pre-reader!_**

* * *

Once the boat is berthed by the quay, a gangway is hauled out. People well forth, all trying to get on the boat at once, and I stand back trying to not get run down. I don't care much about finding a good spot. This part of the journey isn't that long, and anyway, it's just an ocean. It's flat, and everywhere you look, it's the same. It's not like the billowing hills and undulating fields at home, with the small, clear lakes spread between them like blue gems in green velvet and yellow silk. I shake my head to get rid of the pictures of home. It's not home anymore, at least not mine.

As the crowd on the quay thins out, a young woman catches my eye. Her long, brown hair falls in a thick braid down her back and is covered by a simple bonnet. She stands out from the other women as she's not dressed in the same plain, old, everyday clothes as most are. Her dress is seemingly exclusive, made of dark green velvet with a black flowery pattern on it. It's similar to the ones Maria wore for her trips into town since it has the same kind of layered skirts, but it falls more flat than Maria's. She probably doesn't have one of those weird crinolines underneath. Even though the dress looks nice, the hems are dirty and tattered, and her trunk is nearly falling to pieces.

The determination by which she's hauling that trunk and her birch basket behind her is both amusing and impressing. I grab my things and hurry to her, wanting to offer my help. She pauses to wipe a strand of hair from her forehead with a gloved hand. A thin sheen of sweat covers her face. I clear my throat to get her attention and hold out a handkerchief. She looks up at me, her soft, brown eyes guarded and hesitant, but she offers me a demure smile. As she accepts the handkerchief and dabs her skin carefully, I notice a hint of powder on her cheeks and some light red lipstick on her lips. I've heard Master Albert talk disapprovingly about women who paint their faces with make-up, but this woman doesn't seem as crude and indecent as he made them sound.

"Kan jag hjälpa fröken med kofferten?" I ask, offering to help her with her trunk.

"Tack, det vore vänligt," she accepts. The small smile still lingers on her lips, but she carefully keeps her distance.

Her trunk is significantly heavier than mine, albeit not as heavy as it looked when she was trying to maneuver it. I throw it on my cart, oddly self-conscious. I don't want to appear weak, which is a new feeling to me. Never in my life have I worried about that, and I shake my head in confusion. She walks in front of me over the gangway, and I follow closely behind. A seaman ushers us down the stairs to a lower deck and points towards an empty space on the floor. As I place our trunks on the designated spot, she turns around and thanks me, asking for my name at the same time.

"Tack så mycket, Herr ...?"

I snicker; this is definitely the first time someone has ever called me "Mister".

"Vitlock. Jesper Vitlock. Kalla mig Jesper," I say, asking her to use my first name. She extends her hand to me and tells me hers.

"Isa-Bella Svan. Kalla mig Bella," she offers. I take her hand and place a chaste kiss on it, trying to at least act the part of a "Mister".

"Trevligt att råkas, Bella," I say and smile. Saying it's nice to meet her feels like an understatement, but it would seem weird if I told her just how happy I am to have her smile and friendly voice. I realize that, besides asking for food outside Järvsö, and selling turnips at the farmer's market in Uppsala, I haven't really interacted this way with anyone since ... well, since Maria. That's an interaction I'd rather forget.

I push Maria out of my mind and turn my focus to the young woman sitting next to me. Isa-Bella. Bella, she told me to call her. It's rather unusual for a man and a woman to have this kind of conversation unguarded, and maybe that's why she seems so nervous. Her eyes dart to the sides from time to time. Sometimes, when people pass by, she turns her head down or adjusts her bonnet. I can't help but feel like she's hiding her face for some reason. Some of the men stare at her in a most blatant and uncivil way, but I chalk it up to her being so pretty. There seems to be no male companion - a father, brother, or uncle - around to see to it that she's safe. I decide to do that for her. If nothing else, it will provide company and hopefully some pleasant conversation.

I try my best to seem urbane and not expose myself as the yokel I am, but as she chats about places in Göteborg I've never seen, I feel more stupid every minute. When she asks me what I think about the tearing down of some quarters in a place called Vasastaden, I finally cave. I admit to her that I'm not very familiar with Göteborg, other than the part between the train station and the port. Her mouth forms a small 'o' before she apologizes profusely for jumping to conclusions like that, and then I have to confirm, twice, that I'm not from Göteborg at all.

Her entire demeanor changes and she suddenly seems a lot more at ease with chatting to me, even though she still acts strangely when people pass by. She seems thankful to leave the subject of Göteborg and asks me question after question about my family, where I'm from, my line of work, and where I'm going. It's not long before I've told her basically everything about my life up until then, apart from my involvement with Maria. There's something about Bella that makes me want to hide that part about myself - and that's not just because I'm ashamed for being so easily fooled.

I tell her about my interest in wood carving, and before I know it, I'm showing her my Kille pieces. She squeals and claps her hands together, and then she admires the handicraft before suggesting we play at least one game.

Time flies in Bella's company, and before I know it, it is evening. We share a meal of bread, dried meat, and apples, our birch bark baskets pushed together to form a small table. Bella has a bottle of mead, and she generously shares it with me. I wonder where she got it. That kind of mead is quite expensive, and her pretty, but slightly torn, clothes indicate she's not too well-off. I don't dare to mention that. It's an inappropriate topic, and she would most likely be offended. She hasn't given me the opportunity to ask her about her life. She seems to turn every question I have around and direct it back at me, but I want to know more about her.

Thanks to Bella, the two-day trip to Hull turns out to be more pleasant than I expected. We're lucky enough to be regarded as a couple by the seamen, which means they let us stay in the married couples and family section. The separate sections they have for single women and single men are located on opposite sides of the ship, one in the fore and the other in the aft, which would have put more distance between us than I felt comfortable with. After all, she is traveling alone, and single women are threatened by dangers I'd rather not think of. The berths are narrow; the only thing separating them is a thin metal rod. I'm thankful that the cot on Bella's other side is inhabited by a woman. She seems to be anxious around men, which doesn't strike me as odd seeing as some of them have been staring at her in a quite rude manner. It's not long before I find myself with the habit of glaring daggers at anyone casting too long a glance at her.

Hours of easy chatting are interrupted by long periods of comfortable silence and the occasional game of Kille. We share every meal, and even though the bread is beginning to become stale and the dried meat is boring, her company makes them pleasant anyway. I have several bags of dried fruit, and when we run out of fresh apples, I share it with her. I learn more and more about Bella, and I'm happy to hear that she's going to America, too. There is still something secretive about her, though. Every time I ask about what she used to do for a living, she carefully avoids the subject and steers our conversation towards other things. She has mentioned something vague about domestic services for wealthier people. I suspect that's where she's gotten her clothes, possibly hand-me-downs from people she used to work for. I also wonder if that's why she hides her face when people walk by. Maybe she's ashamed of being recognized as someone's housemaid, although I can't really understand why. A lot of young women work as housemaids, and it's not like my work as a farmhand is superior to that. There is something about it that gives me the feeling that her previous occupation is a sensitive subject.

Once we arrive in Hull, we stay close to each other. I suspect it's mostly because Bella needs help with her things, but I also hope she enjoys my company. We buy the train tickets together, and it seems like she gets a lot less attention from men when she's around me. I like that I'm providing some sort of protection just by being there.

The train from Hull to Liverpool has smaller areas for luggage storage, and once Bella's trunk is in place, there is no room for mine. A guard directs me to the storage in one of the rear railway cars, and when I get back, Bella is nowhere to be found. I try to ask for her, but people are speaking a foreign tongue, and I have difficulties making myself understood. The importance of learning the language of my new country becomes painstakingly clear when my efforts in finding Bella almost get me thrown off the train. I'm not sure if they think I'm a thief searching for victims or if they simply think I'm harassing the other travelers, but the conductor's vivid gestures and stern looks tell me I better stay in one place for the rest of the trip.

Not knowing if Bella's doing all right is making me edgy and nervous. I'm worried that she won't get off the train for some reason and miss the steamboat to America. The amount of relief I feel when I spot her in the crowd at Liverpool train station is somewhat disquieting, but I tell myself it's simply on behalf of her being a lonesome woman in a foreign country and all. I force my way toward her, stretching my neck as much as possible so as to not lose sight of her, and as I get closer, I see that her guarded posture is back. Yelling her name over the heads of the surrounding people, I finally get her attention, and her face opens up in a beautiful smile that makes my heart flutter in the weirdest way. I furrow my brow as I navigate through the crowd, wondering about the strange feeling in my body. It's like nothing I've ever experienced before.

I push my odd reactions aside and join Bella, giving a helping hand with her trunk and basket. We move quicker than most since we don't have any large packing-cases, and the things we do have are easily managed on my cart. Compared to Göteborg, this ticket office is a wonder of efficiency, and we get our tickets in no time. It's a madhouse down at Waterloo docks. Families are trying to embark with box after box of belongings. Nervous horses with carriages are threatening to trample down those not paying attention. Stern police officers are watching over the area and helping the sailors to direct the people into something resembling queues.

We slowly make our way over the gangway, and once on the boat, we stop to show our tickets and give our names. The passenger list is already long, and our names are to be added, too. The clerk looks at me, expectantly, so I show him my ticket and say my name.

"Jesper Vitlock."

He repeats my name, almost, but not quite, correct, and scribbles it down on the passenger list.

"Jasper Whitlock."

I shake my head to correct him, using one of the few words of English I've learned so far.

"No, Jesper. Jesper Vitlock."

"Yes, Jasper Whitlock," he repeats, and then points to the right, waving me off.

_Jasper Whitlock._

I guess it doesn't matter. Jesper Vitlock or Jasper Whitlock, it's almost the same anyway. Jesper Vitlock is nothing but a farmhand, but maybe Jasper Whitlock will be more. I look at my new name on the list. It looks ... almost noble. Jasper Whitlock sounds like someone to be reckoned with. I smile and step to the side, waiting for Bella, and watch him repeat her name and write it down, again almost, but not quite, correct.

"Isabella Swan."

Then he points to the left. Bella is supposed to go left, not to the right. She turns to me, and I see the distress in her eyes. I want to follow her to her part of the ship, but people are pressing on from behind, and the clerk is getting annoyed. I smile reassuringly and tell her it's going to be all right, and that we'll meet where they distribute the food supplies.

I tell her I'll wait for her. My heart sinks to my stomach as I watch Bella disappear down a ladder, trying to manage her trunk and her basket at the same time.

How am I going to watch over her now?


	4. Chapter 4

_**Thanks to Jennifer and PTB. Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight, I just borrow it...**_

* * *

If I thought I was going to travel in the lower deck this journey as well, I was horribly mistaken. I'm told to continue even further down, past the decks, past the machinery, and down a steep, rickety staircase to the steerage area. It's crowded, dark and damp, and has no windows except the portholes, and gets no fresh air. I wonder how I'm going to stand spending two weeks in this place; it feels like a prison.

The steerage is planned much like the lower deck on the boat from Göteborg to Hull, with families in the middle, single women in the fore—close to the medical office—and single men in the aft. It's packed with small berths separated only by thin iron rods. They tier up four rows high and are interrupted only by the occasional shelves and benches along the sides of the ship. Every berth is equipped with a straw mattress, a blanket, a battered tin plate, a tin cup, a knife, a fork, and a spoon.

The steerage is filling up quickly, and I hurry to the single men's area to make sure I get a good cot. I dare not leave it just yet, afraid someone will steal my belongings or take my place, so I stay put, watching my fellow passengers closely. We all look pretty much the same—like poor people. Some of us are posing as richer than we are, but we're easily revealed due to the fact that we couldn't afford traveling, even at lower deck. I glance at my own outfit and snort inwardly: did I really think I'd fool anyone?

The noise increases as the family area fills with screaming children and men fighting to get the best spots. Staying with my belongings was a wise move, and I watch more than one man being forced to find a new place to sleep. Years of hard work in the fields has given me a strong and sinewy body, well-equipped to stand my ground in a quarrel, but I keep a low profile in my corner. I want to avoid the fights for the highest place in the pecking order that seems to be mandatory among single men. Going unnoticed by most is usually the safest and easiest way of staying out of trouble.

I crane my neck to try to see all the way over to the women's section, wanting to know if Bella's found a good spot yet, but it's impossible to see through the crowd of bobbing heads. A sickly-looking woman with two small children catches my eye as they try to find somewhere to sleep. They are constantly being pushed away by others who are stronger, quicker, and less civil. As they have their course set on a few free cots, I see more than one grown man brush them aside to get there first and grab them for their own family with little to no regard for the lonely woman with her two children. She has no man there to fend for her, and it breaks my heart a little when I see the despair in her eyes.

I turn to the young man next to me, pointing to my cot and then to myself, raising an eyebrow at him as I try to make him understand that I want him to guard it for me. He nods, and I smile at him before walking away into the crowd. I spot the little family again. The woman is standing still as people press by her. Her kids are standing close to her legs, hiding in her skirt. The woman has long, red hair in a braid, but the kids are both black-haired. The girl is small; she looks somewhere around five years old, and the boy can't be older than two. They stare wide-eyed at the people swarming around them, and the boy has his little hands pressed against his ears to shut the noise out.

A few empty cots on my right catch my eye, and I hurry over there, marking them as mine with my presence. I try to catch the woman's eye and wave my hand in the air, resulting in nothing but a few annoyed glances from the people next to me. I realize I have to yell to get her attention, but I don't know what language she speaks—and even if I did, I wouldn't know enough words. I settle for one of the few I know in the new language and scream as loud as I can.

"Hello! Hello!"

There's still no reaction from her; she's staring into thin air and looks disconnected somehow. But then I see a small hand waving lower down, and the little girl catches my eyes. I wave back and point to the empty cots next to me. Her face lights up in a big smile, exposing a gap in her front teeth, and she starts pulling at her mother's skirt. Her eyes dart between me and her mother, and when she gets no reaction, she simply grabs her little brother, lets go of the security of her mother's skirt, and hurries over to me. I point to the cots, and she helps her brother up on one of them by pushing his little bottom. She takes her shoes off, places them on the other cot, and then jumps up on the third one. I realize then that she's effectively claimed all three for her family, and that she is no longer in need of my help. I turn to leave, but she takes my hand and tugs on it. I lean down, not expecting to understand what she wants to say, but instead I'm rewarded with something that's impossible to misinterpret.

She gives me a kiss on my cheek.

I smile and pat her head before turning back to my own cot. From there, I watch as she finally manages to get her mother's attention by jumping up and down, screaming, "Mama, mama!" That word is easy enough to understand. It's almost the same as in my language.

I stay on my cot as the ship casts off and listen to the constant drumming of the machinery above us. I wonder if I'll get used to the sound after a few days, or if it will be too hard to handle for me. This is a stark contrast to the silence of the countryside, where the worst noise you hear is an occasional horse neigh or cow moo. A sting of regret at the loss of my homeland pierces my gut; I feel it in my heart and my stomach, and I wonder if I'll ever see the Swedish forests again. I don't even know what America looks like. For all I know, everything I've heard could be lies, and it could be an inhospitable, barren place instead of the rich, flourishing land people say it is.

The slight sway on the ship, the humming voices around me, and the monotonous sounds from the machines lull me to sleep. I dream of a small cottage in a new country. A dark-haired woman is sitting in front of a fireplace with a butter churn between her knees. Two small children are playing with pine-cone animals on the floor, and she admonishes them when they are too loud. In the dream, I look down at my hands. They are dirty, sticky with resin, and holding an axe. As I put it away, the dark-haired woman turns around to greet me, and it's not Maria sitting there. It's Bella. She gets up from the milking stool she's been sitting on and waddles toward me with a sweet smile on her face. Her belly is round and heavy with child, and when I lay my hands on it, I feel the baby kick in there. The two children come running, and I recognize their faces. It's the sweet little girl I helped finding cots earlier and her little brother. They cling to my legs, their happy little faces screaming "Papa, papa!" as I reach down and pat their heads. In a strange moment of wakefulness within the dream, I realize that Papa is pretty much the same word in Swedish, and I am, indeed, their Papa.

Some sort of commotion wakes me up, and I'm disoriented at first, not remembering where I am, or what is real or a dream. The realization that this is the first dream without Maria I've had in a while hits me, and I'm happy that Bella has taken her place. She's a much more pleasant woman, to be honest. She's sweet, thoughtful, and doesn't judge people by appearances. Unlike Maria, she doesn't care that I'm nothing more than a farmhand. She doesn't think less of me because of my background. She is beautiful, just like Maria, but she doesn't flaunt it, and it seems like she's somewhat self-conscious. The more I think about Bella and the way she differs from Maria, the more I miss Bella's company. The memory of my dream, with Bella having my baby in her belly, sends a strange buzz through my body, and I'm not entirely sure how to interpret it. I like the thought of it, but when I think of doing to Bella what I've done with Maria, I blush. For some reason, it feels too dirty. It's not that I don't want to—because honestly, now that it has entered my mind, I want nothing more than to know Bella in that way—but it feels like Bella should have much more. Bella is worth more. When I think that someone, some... _man_, would do things like that to her, I want to scream. Unless it's me. Because I wouldn't just _do _things to her. I would respect her and cherish her as well.

The thoughts of Bella and other men awaken the need to find her and to see that she's okay. When I look around, I notice the area isn't as crowded as before. I roll off my cot and decide to take a walk on the ship. If I'm lucky I might find Bella. As I pass through the steerage area toward the women's section, I spot Bella's birch basket on a cot close to the family section, but Bella is nowhere to be seen. I turn around to see if she's by the trunk storage area, but can't see her there either. I climb up the unsteady ladder to the machinery deck and continue up to the lower deck. When I step out through the door, I walk straight into a line of people. It's winding all the way through lower deck and out a door in the far, starboard, end. On the opposite, larboard side, people are returning with jute sacks full of groceries.

So this is what the commotion was about. Food distribution. I stay in the slowly progressing line, all the while keeping an eye on the larboard side door. When Bella walks through it, the strange feeling in my body is back. It's similar to the rushes of adrenaline I've experienced when stumbling across wild animals in the forests at home, but those times had been spurred by fear. This is something different—I'm certainly not afraid of Bella—but it creates the same effervescence, which is soon replaced by a weird weakness in my limbs. The image of her pregnant belly flashes before my eyes, and I shake my head to clear it. Bella's eyes are searching the line, and I wave at her, hoping it's me she's looking for.

The smile on her face when she spots me leads me to believe that maybe she was. I smile back at her. I don't notice the line moving forward—trapped as I am in Bella's smile—and almost fall when someone shoves me from behind. A long string of harsh words, probably directed at me, follows as I stumble forward. I glance at Bella; she's hiding a smile behind her hand, and then she waves at me, pointing toward the deck. I nod at her, glare at the man behind me, and move my attention back to the ever-so-slow-moving line.

It must have been hours when it's finally my turn at the food delivery counter. I say my name—my new name—and watch as they line up my food rations. I listen closely to what they say to learn the names for the food I receive. They combine some words with holding up their fingers, and I come to the conclusion that those words are connected to numbers.

"Oatmeal, five pounds." The housekeeper holds up his hand, spreading all fingers.

_Five._

The look of "oatmeal" I recognize from home; I've had many breakfasts made of this.

"Rice, two pounds." A bag of odd-looking white grains is set on the counter, and another set of fingers is held up in front of me. It's the same amount as a pair of eyes, or ears.

_Two._

"Biscuits, two and a half pounds." This is some sort of bread apparently. The same set of fingers are shown to me, but then they add one more, covering part of it.

_Ah. Half._

"Flour, one pound." I know what that is. It's what you make bread with. The housekeeper shows me his index finger.

_One._

"Sugar, half a pound." The index finger, and then he covers part of it.

_There's the "half" again._

"Molasses, half a pound."

I have no idea what this is, or what I'm supposed to do with it, but I nod at the housekeeper and repeat his word.

"Half!"

He smiles at me and throws up the last item on his list.

"Tea, two ounces."

_Two. _

I don't recognize this either, and clearly, this is not as much as the other "twos". I realize there must be a difference in the meaning of those other words they kept adding after every number. I decide to learn that the next time. They pack it all in a jute sack and send me off. I wonder where the coffee is, and why I didn't get any meat. If this is the food I'm getting, I must ration the dried meat and fruit I bought in Göteborg.

I make my way to the deck and find Bella sitting in the evening sun outside. As I say her name, she looks up and gives me a bright smile. Her jute bag is next to her, and I set mine down next to hers before sitting down. We compare the contents of our sacks and come to the conclusion that we've all been given the same supplies, although it's highly unlikely the rich people traveling first-class are subjected to this limited selection.

Bella knows how to use some of the groceries I didn't recognize—the black, dry leaves called "tea" are made into a drink by pouring hot water on them. She says it's similar to coffee, but weaker, and that the rich people in Göteborg used to have special social events where they drank tea, mingled, and showed off their wealth to their peers. I find it odd that they give us such a luxurious product but don't think of giving us plain coffee. We still haven't found out how to use the rice grains, but we come to the conclusion that they are probably supposed to be soaked in water and cooked. She promises to sneak a peek into the small cook shop to see how the other women use it. As we taste the brown, thick liquid called "molasses", we realize that it's probably used to sweeten things, almost like honey.

We stay at our deck for a while and watch the people swarming around us. There is a distinct difference between the people here on the lower deck and the rich people on the upper. We see them if we lean over the gunwale and stretch our necks. They saunter around on the deck above us, in their nice suits and frilly dresses with umbrellas to shield them from the sun. Bella points out some of them as Swedes from Göteborg, but when I ask how she knows them, she shrugs and mumbles something about recognizing them from her domestic work. I gather she's seen some of them in the household where she's worked. It must have been at some businessman's house, because it's the men she recognizes, not their wives.

Once or twice, we see brave, young men from the lower deck trying to sneak their way up the stairs into first class in an attempt to flirt with the daughters. They are quickly evicted by the rich people's servants and thrown down the ladders in a rather harsh manner. It's quite obvious they don't want to mix poor with wealthy on this ship.

As it darkens, we decide to head back down to steerage. The sky is clear, and the rising moon almost full. The summer night is darker than I'm used to, but the moonlight reflects off the black ocean and makes it seem like the ship is lit from both above and below. Back in steerage, I'm even more thankful for the bright moon. The only light comes from the small portholes.

I part with Bella and make my way to my section. The little black-haired girl catches my eye again. She's sitting on her cot, next to her baby brother, singing a lullaby with her bright voice. He's lying under the blanket, and I can tell by his heavy eyelids that he's on the verge of sleep. Their mother is lying on the cot next to them; her pale face is almost green. A tin bucket is placed on the floor next to her, the unmistakable stench of vomit rising from it. I find it odd that she's already seasick. The weather has been nice, and the ship is steady, but when I think of it, I remember she looked unwell even before the ship sailed.

Sitting down on my cot, I realize how incredibly tired I am. The last weeks have passed by in a blur, and as I think back, I find it hard to believe that I'm actually on my way. It seems like only yesterday I went for a swim in the lake at home, but at the same time, it's oddly distant. It feels like a different life. It's not _me_anymore. I lie down on the cot and close my eyes, allowing my body to relax. Voices are murmuring around me, and I listen closely. The language is still a mystery to me, even though I'm beginning to learn some. Now I can make out words where I used to hear just gibberish, even though I don't actually understand them. Sometimes I hear something that resembles Swedish, and that makes me smile. The fact that there are similarities between my old and my new language is encouraging. I wonder if Bella is discovering that as well and decide to ask her in the morning.

The night progresses, and the voices grow sparse as people fall asleep. I'm already getting used to the steady thumping of the machinery above us. I listen to it for a while. The heartbeat of the ship is accompanied by snores from the cots around me, and I hear someone crying softly in the distance. I hope it's not Bella. I drift off to sleep with pictures of me comforting a sad Bella in my mind.


End file.
